Smothering. The heavy press of a pillow against nose and mouth. That’s the thought that swoops and swirls across my mind as I pause, one hand against the wall. My heart hammers in my chest, so hard that I can barely breathe as I glance up at the landing, the stairs a mountain to climb before me. I fight against the tightness in my chest, against the nausea that makes saliva flood my mouth and I step forward onto the first step, teetering on the edge. It’s as if there is a voice whispering in my ear, telling me there’s still time. I can take my foot off the step, lay it back on the solid floor and then turn and run. Or I can raise the other foot, take another step towards the inevitable. There is a roaring sound in my ears, similar to the noise you hear when you raise a shell to your ear to hear the crashing of the ocean. I can still feel the creak of the stairs underfoot even if I can’t hear it, as I raise first one foot, then the other, climbing towards the top. By allowing myself to climb those stairs I have made my decision. There can be no going back, not now. Reaching the landing, a cold puddle of moonlight pools across the threadbare carpet and I feel the chill of it beneath my bare feet, feel the scratchiness of the worn carpet fibres against my skin. I take a moment, glancing out of the window to the darkness outside, my head feeling light and swimmy. My vision blurs slightly and blinking rapidly I try to clear my sight, letting my gaze be drawn to the white of the moon. I need to be able to see clearly, to do what must be done. My pulse skitters under my skin and I have to let out a long breath as I peer into the room ahead, seeing her tiny body in the bed in front of me, a frayed blue blanket laid across the foot of the bed as unfamiliar shadows dance across the ceiling. There is a breeze coming from somewhere, stirring the thick, heavy air; a window left open in another room perhaps. The cold brushes over my nose, my cheeks, my fingers and the frayed cuffs of my linen shirt hang limply over my wrists, tickling my sweaty palms. There is a thudding at my temples, a low-level nausea starting to swirl in my stomach, and I have to swallow, my throat painfully dry. Everything has already come undone, and there is only one way I can put things right. I can’t stop now. There is no alternative. If they had just left me alone, none of this would be happening.

Chapter One